He’d had to give Sabini something, though, and he’d got at least circumstantial confirmation of their suspicions. A high-up in the Met gunning for Aaron, getting Darby Sabini to lean on Joel, owing a gang lord favours.

Joel wasn’t the stuff of which righteous avengers were made. He’d never felt he had the time and resources to look after anyone much beyond himself. But he was properly outraged now, not just for Aaron—honest, dedicated Aaron who cared about doing the right thing—but as a matter of principle. This was wrong, and he was angry in the sick deep-down way he’d been angry about his trial and conviction, with the impotent rage that came from watching powerful people wreck lives for advantage or profit or fun.

He fretted the rest of the day away, and was grateful for a couple of clients to distract him. He used the rest of his time putting his things in order and packing a bag so that, if need be, he could run.

He wasn’t to contact Aaron unless it was an emergency. He didn’t expect to hear from him that day, and duly didn’t; he did hope for something the following afternoon, say. Or evening, or night, but the clock ticked remorselessly on and no word came.

By the third morning Joel had chewed off all the fingernails he had available and was cursing the Germans for depriving him of the other five. Ought he try to get in touch with Aaron? Why wasn’t he saying what was going on? Had he found anything? Was he keeping Joel out of it to protect him, and how hard would Joel need to kick him?

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be protected; he absolutely did. But he wanted even more to be useful. He wanted to be Aaron’s partner in this, and he wanted to know what was going on, because Aaron ought not to be facing this alone.

When the knock came, he ran for the door. Whether it was a telegram from Aaron, or Eddie Twigg, or Darby Sabini himself, he needed to see something was moving.

It was none of those. It was a young woman in a long sensible serge skirt.

“Mr. Wildsmith? I’m Detective Constable Helen Challice. May I come in?”

Joel stepped back. Miss, or Constable, Challice entered, shut the door, looked around with every evidence of disapproval, and said, “I need to talk to you, Mr. Wildsmith. DS Fowler sent me.”

“Is that right,” Joel said. This was the woman copper Aaron had said he’d talk to, that he felt he could trust, but Joel wasn’t inclined to extend the benefit of the doubt to anyone right now.

She was eyeing him up shrewdly. “I expect you want to know if I’m telling the truth.”

“Er—?”